


carry your heart

by Idril



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, First Kiss, John is a Mess, John is sad, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Mary is dead and gone, Post HLV, Sherlock is a Mess, Sherlock is sorry, They have a lot to talk through, not really consensual kiss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-07
Updated: 2015-02-07
Packaged: 2018-03-10 21:04:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3303410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Idril/pseuds/Idril
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Mary dies, John returns to Baker Street, but he is sad and quiet. And Sherlock is sorry.</p>
            </blockquote>





	carry your heart

He’s so quiet these days, John. Quiet and withdrawn and soft. Wounded, just like that first time, years ago, meeting in a lab. Wounded in a different way, a worse way. Bodies can heal. It’s his soul now. Quiet and soft and withdrawn and wounded. There’s only so much a man can take, Sherlock supposes. Only so much a man can lose before he is broken. Sherlock knows this very well.

 _I’m sorry_ , Sherlock thinks.

*

He does the shopping now. He goes to Tesco, once a week, fills his basket with useless, pointless things. Eggs, milk, bread, _sorry_. Tries to anticipate John’s needs. Fails on almost every count. What did she buy him? Whatever he buys, it never seems to matter anyway. John hardly eats, drinks not enough water and entirely too much whiskey. He used to eat. He used to love to eat. Now, he loves nothing. Everything he loves dies. _I’m still here, though._

He sits for hours, in his chair. Sherlock sits across from him, but the angle is off. He can’t see John anymore. He can’t find him there. He can just see a body.

 _I’m sorry, I’m sorry_ , Sherlock thinks.

*

Saying those words aloud is not good. Sherlock learned it the hard way, walking home from the funeral. He had turned to John, the words poised on his tongue, ready to spill. Those words (I’m sorry) and more, maybe. Maybe once he started, he wouldn’t stop. Would never stop saying words to John that he had always meant to say, had tried to say so many times.

“Don’t you dare say you’re fucking sorry now, Sherlock.” Stone eyes, set lips, clenched fist; anger. Enough space between them to fit a thousand apologies.

“Okay.” Sherlock does not dare to say it. Keeps it in his mouth and his head and his heart and does not try again. Keeps his hands in his pockets and does not reach out again.

_I’m sorry I didn’t try harder._

*****

John is past ‘sorry’ and ‘fault’ and ‘try’. He is wounded and it doesn’t matter anymore who is sorry and who is glad and who is dead and who is alive. This is more than a psychosomatic limp, easily cured by chasing criminals. This was the work of a psycho criminal- a wife. A baby. All gone. But not Sherlock. No, Sherlock is alive, and sorry, but John doesn’t seem to care now. He’s traded one for the other, and he doesn’t seem satisfied with the trade. Sherlock can never live up to the life John had, was going to have. He can’t provide John with the kind of companionship Mary did ( _can’t he?_ ). He certainly can’t provide him with a child ( _did he even want one?_ ). But did he ever really have any of those things, if it was all a lie?

He should have tried harder to find out what she was. Back before there were rings and weddings and babies. Could have been who he was and done what he did and saved John and maybe John would have looked at him and said _fantastic_ and _amazing_ and he could have found himself again in those words. If she had been gone and dispatched and taken care of like every other girlfriend. Only John had said, “Not this one, Sherlock” and he had held his tongue. Well, he should have treated her like the criminal she was, instead. A liar and a thief, for stealing everything from Sherlock. And from John. He would have been happy without her. Sherlock is sure of this. John was happy without her, before ( _with him_ ).

 _I’m sorry_ , Sherlock thinks, _I didn’t try harder_.

*

John’s hand reached out and up, that day, as if to touch him, and Sherlock finally knew the meaning of regret. Sherlock, who could count the number of apologies he had made before that moment on one hand. He jumped anyway, and was sorry instantly. He has carried that word in his soul for years now. _Sorrysorrysorry_.

John’s words, John’s touch; everything Sherlock thought he was rearranged itself that day. He fell and he lost himself and he found John and it was all too late.

 _I’m sorry I didn’t try harder_. Who is he apologizing to? Sherlock doesn’t even know anymore.

*

It is weeks later and it’s still no good, and everything has gone to shit. Sherlock remembers, now, why he hated apologizes. They fix nothing. By the time you need to apologize, damage is already done. It’s a useless social nicety. He cannot reverse what has happened because he says two words. They mean nothing to John, as they should. They will never be enough to change anything. He keeps them in his mouth and swallows them down and doesn’t reach out.

John doesn’t want to hear them, anyway. _I’m sorry_! It screams now inside his head, bouncing around in the silence that occupies the space between his ears. He has nothing left there now, Sherlock thinks. Nothing but the shopping, the washing up, and the apologies. No cases, no friends. There are too many things between them that they cannot say. Conversation is now fraught with dangers and traps and double-edged swords. One careless word leads to another, and soon John is angry and sad and drinking, and Sherlock is sorry for bringing it up, and sorry for being sorry. He will dedicate his life to his regrets and apologies and John will not notice and John will not care and he absolutely hates what they have become.

 _I’m sorry, John, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry_. He needs it out, can’t keep it to himself anymore. One day, it will break free, evacuate his mind and his lips, and Sherlock does not know what it will cause, but it must be better than this. Anything will be better than this. He’ll say it some day and this in-between life, this waiting for the other shoe to drop, will end and then he won’t have to swallow any more bitter words. But that would mean giving up John, he is sure of it. And he is not ready for that, yet.

 _I’ll try harder_ , he thinks.

 *****

For years, Sherlock carried John’s love around him tight like a vice. It gave him strength, it gave him urgency. He left it all behind, all John was offering him (didn’t realize was being offered until “you could” and it was like the lights came on in his mind), but it would all be there when he came back. Maybe it would be hidden, but Sherlock had found John, now, and he would not lose him again.

And Sherlock would say, “John, I was never really dead. No one can come back from the dead.”

And John would say, “You could.”

 _I’m sorry_ , he thought so many nights, _I didn’t know._

_*_

When the day finally comes, when the avalanche begins, it is the smallest thing that sets it off.

Sherlock has returned from the shops, and John had actually asked for something this time (Pens, Sherlock, can you get some pens?) and Sherlock had been so excited. Perhaps this waiting, this grieving period, was over and John was ready to write again? Pens, that’s a good sign. Pens could lead to words, understanding, forgiveness.

There were no pens because Sherlock had broken them all. Twisted the bottoms off, pulled out the springs and the ink and examined the casings. Mixed them all into one big pile, and tried to put the pens back together again. Was reduced to dissecting pens to please John, who never liked the body parts in the fridge. It was more like a dissection if he broke the ink. It stained his fingers; black, blue, red. The colors of injury; the colors of words. Imagined that he would take his fingers, covered in ink, and write those words across John’s chest. Take his injuries and write them out until all that was left was John’s skin and _I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry_. John would have to listen then.

So Sherlock gets home, unpacks his offerings, and realizes he forgot to buy pens. He hates himself in that moment, is reminded of how selfish he is and always has been. He is frozen, thinking of how he could escape back out without John noticing, but John turns to look expectantly at him, eyebrow raised in slight interest.

“Sherlock?” he asks.

“I’m sorry, John,” he says, abruptly. The words feel strange on the way out of his mouth; he has fought them back so many times, they rush forth as if escaping a prison. He realizes he hasn’t said them at all these past months, not for any reason. They sound too heavy and serious for such a small triviality, and Sherlock regrets them immediately.

John’s face is blank for one moment. Then he stands, out of his chair, and is moving toward the door.

“I forgot the pens,” Sherlock clarifies quickly. Panic. “I’m sorry. For the pens.”

He watches as John clenches and unclenches his fist. Watches John’s back as he takes a deep breath. Watches as John turns around to face him.

“For the pens?” It’s a challenge, and Sherlock sees it and _god_ he can’t do this anymore. Steps out from behind the counter, closer now to John. Close enough to throw fists, or arms, or apologies.

“No. Well, yes, but no. For...” He isn’t sure where to begin, now that he has the courage to try. He can feel all the words. What is he sorry for? Behind one regret is another, and it’s easier in his mind, when his fingers are ink. If he writes the words now, all across John’s skin, will John just wash them off? Will he just peel off his skin and find a new one, one that Sherlock hasn’t touched and destroyed and stained?

John is breathing fast. His eyes are hard, but his face is vulnerable. His heart is on his sleeve, knows what’s coming and still can’t shield it. That was always his problem, Sherlock thinks.

John huffs, frustration. “You don’t even know, do you Sherlock? You don’t even know what you should be sorry for.”

And that is so wrong, so utterly incorrect, that he can stay silent no longer.

“I am sorry for not seeing what she was sooner. I am sorry for ignoring my instincts about her when we first met. I am sorry for letting you marry her. I am sorry you will never be a father.”

He pauses to take a breath, and John’s eyes have gone shiny. He can see John ready to rebut, or to disengage from the conversation, can see the anger and words waiting to pour from the man’s mouth, fists clenched and arms straight, but he can’t stop now. He never knew when to shut up.

“Above all, I am sorry I left you for so long and that I drove you to her. I am sorry that you loved me, before. I’m sorry that I didn’t, then.”

Sherlock stops after that one, feeling like finally he has said what he wanted to say all along. Except _I’m sorry I love you now, so much I cannot function when we are like this_. But he’s not sure he can say that just now. He’s not sure he’s really sorry for it.

“You’re sorry that I loved you?” John says, eyes wide in disbelief. _No,_ Sherlock thinks, but he doesn’t get a chance to defend himself. John is not denying it, and that catches him off guard. “You knew then, did you?” John says, angry. “You knew I loved you, and you killed yourself in front of me? And you’re sorry that I loved you? That’s the part you’re sorry for?”

“No, John, I- I didn’t know when I jumped. If I had known- I swear to you, John, I-” Desperation. Now that the words are coming, they are falling all wrong, coming out all mixed up and unclear. He needs a moment to clear his head, to take a breath and take a step back from this situation. Maybe he should tell John that it’s ok, he loves him too?

“Oh, so you figured it out some time during the two years I was here, mourning your death, and you decided to let me continue to think you were dead? You let me go on with my life. You let me move **on** , dammit. I moved on, Sherlock, I can’t do this with you anymore. If you had come back, even a month sooner, if you had come back-” John stops, composes himself visibly.

It is painful to try to finish that thought. _If you had come back- then I would have loved you still; I would have left her for you_. Too many regrets to count.

John takes a step back from Sherlock. (When did he get so close?) But he could be halfway across London for all the difference it makes. All Sherlock hears (sees, deduces) is the unspoken _I loved you, but not anymore_. _I moved on_. He had thought it was too late, had told himself it was too late, but had let himself hope. Idiot.

“I’m s--”

“No. No, stop.” Palm out, warding Sherlock off. Trying to make him stop destroying himself, again. Sherlock feels the familiar fear of being on the edge, and being too high to survive the fall. “You are— no. I can’t do this.” And John walks out the door.

 _I’m sorry_ , Sherlock thinks, _I tried._

_*_

Sherlock spends the next couple hours packing John’s things. There were not many to begin with- clothes, toiletries, a few mementos. (Pictures of Mary, of the ultrasound. Sherlock wasn’t sure why John kept them, at first, but now he knows that John really did love Mary, after all. Can you only love one person at a time? Did Mary push him out, replace him? More regrets.) He also finds space for the things John left the first time he moved out. Some books, sweaters, socks, pictures of them together and newspaper clippings.

He is not kicking John out. He is no more capable of kicking John out than he is of removing his own heart from his chest. He is just making it easier for John. This is what he has become now. Some spineless thing for John to tread on. This is his penance. The shopping, the cooking, the breaking of his own heart. John will take everything when he leaves, and Sherlock has packed it all up neatly in boxes for him. He hates himself more now than he ever has before.

When he’s finished, and has lined up his offerings along the wall closest to the door, Sherlock sits in his chair. He sits, and he thinks, and he lets all the regret and hurt build up inside him, and he gives himself time to grieve his relationship with John. To take it all (the good times, the bad times, the fantastic times) and to sort it all and organize it all and put it all away, and put his _sorry_  and his _I love you_ and lock it away. John doesn’t want it. He's not sure he wants it, himself, if this is how it feels.

He is still in his chair, hours later.

 _I’ve lost myself_ , he thinks. He’s not sure what he will find when he goes looking.

*

It’s dark when John returns. He enters quietly, as if trying not to disturb Sherlock’s sleep, and Sherlock wonders if John ever really knew him at all. How could he even think Sherlock could be asleep right now? But, no, that’s only the insecurity talking. John **did** know him. John could not possibly think Sherlock is asleep. Then, he must be trying to come in without Sherlock knowing. Unfortunately, Sherlock is still in his chair and is therefore facing the door. The lights are off, though, and John is not looking, so Sherlock remains silent, observing.

John comes into the room and immediately turns to the kitchen. Tea. There is too much noise, though, too much banging and Sherlock realizes that John is drunk. He has been drinking quite a lot, but he has never really been drunk. Sherlock understands, of course. Who was he to begrudge someone the appeal of chemical amnesia? But John is clearly drunk now. Sherlock feels a ripple of fear at this thought. John drunk is unpredictable. He should go hide the gun.

As he gets up, though, John notices that he’s there and leaves the kitchen, holding on to objects along the way to balance himself.

“You,” John starts, but appears not to know where to go with that, so he just stands there and looks at Sherlock. Just looks and looks, and Sherlock doesn’t know where to let his eyes rest after they have done a once-over to make sure John is alright, so he meets John’s eye, defiantly raising his chin. He’s sorry, but he’s won’t apologize for that, at least.

“John, I want you to-” _know why I left, know why I didn’t deduce her, know that I love you_.

“No. No no no, shut up. **Shut up!** Jesus, Sherlock!” John sways from the force of his voice and Sherlock, like usual, shuts up. John approaches him, holds onto the side of Sherlock’s chair for support, and looks at him again. Sherlock isn’t sure what John is seeing, but suddenly, quicker than any drunk man should move, John has fisted both his hands in Sherlock’s shirt and is hauling him into a kiss. Sherlock is shocked for a moment, then braces his hands against John’s chest and pushes. Hard. John stumbles back, and Sherlock reaches out to catch him before he falls. John lets go like he’s been burned, or hit, and recoils backwards until he hits the coffee table. He sits hard, and puts his face in his hands.

“I thought you…” he begins, but again can’t finish. Sherlock just stands stock still, breath coming fast, not able to fully understand what just happened. He can still feel John’s hands on him, rough and impatient and angry. Not how Sherlock wants this. If this is going to happen, finally, it won’t be in hate and anger. Sherlock is sure enough of that.

“You’re drunk, John. Go to bed.” He musters all the will and self-control he has left to quiet his racing mind and not spew forth with angry words, and he goes to his room. Locks the door to keep himself from going back to John, from allowing John to flay him open. Lays down on the bed and listens to John fall apart for the hundredth time. Listens to the thrumming of his own blood in his ears. He can’t do this anymore.

 _I’m sorry_ , he thinks. _I’m so, so sorry_.

*

Sherlock stays awake all night. He hears John lay back onto the sofa, and eventually fall asleep. Sherlock is sure to not fall asleep, because if John leaves in the morning, he wants the man to at least look him in the eye when he does. Instead, he thinks.

He doesn’t know why John kissed him, why he crossed that careful line now of all times, and he doesn’t know how far John was prepared to take it. He does know that his mind is trying to spin out that moment, to frame it in a different light. _John’s hands weren’t really that rough_. _He wasn’t really that drunk_. _It was passion, not anger. Why turn down what you have desired for so long?_

But he can’t convince himself, not really. He knows he is at a disadvantage in this, and he knows that is why he hopes still. One act by an angry drunk man, and Sherlock is back to where he was before, all his carefully tucked-away memories spilling out of their holding places for him to reexamine. He has explored them from all angles, with all inflections, and he still doesn’t know if John loves him. Hasn’t been able to deduce anything about John clearly since standing on that sidewalk next to Mary, a bloody tissue against his nose, and he realizes it’s because he stopped trying. Didn’t want to deduce the wrong things (the truth). Self-preservation at the time, and self-destruction now. _Ignorance is bliss_ he had thought at the time, but now he sees how far from himself he has come. He does not understand all the ways he has changed for this man, and he hates them at the same time.

 _I’m sorry_.

*

Dawn breaks clear a few hours later. He hears John shift on the sofa, hears a groan as he sits up, hears a soft curse as he undoubtedly remembers last night. Sherlock has a moment of indecision. A moment where he must choose: Is this to be the day? He is sure that if he walks out as if nothing has happened, John will take that cue and last night will never be spoken of again. Is that what he wants, though? To continue in this hell of his own making, walking on eggshells because he is afraid of finding out the truth? Afraid of his best friend in his own home? Who has he become?

And he decides, right then and there, that this will end today. He must, somehow, rescue himself from this situation. He must find himself again, and if it means losing John, then. Then that is the price he must pay, the price he willingly paid once before, though now he knows the true cost.

But-- John had loved him back then, had said so himself. Perhaps he could love him again.

Decided, he stands from the bed, straightens his clothes, and almost physically feels the condolences and the sorry and the regret slide away until only **he** is left. He is Sherlock Holmes. That will have to be enough.

Unapologetic, he opens the door.

*

“Sherlock, I’m so-” John begins, but Sherlock doesn’t let him continue. It’s his turn, now.

“John. I have done you the service of packing your belongings. If you wish to remain at Baker Street, you will adhere to the following conditions.”

John looks surprised, but he also looks wrecked and Sherlock knows that this is the right thing to do, and the right time to do it. John can’t do this anymore, either.

“First, no more alcohol.” Sherlock pauses.

He’s not sure if John is going to respond, is ready to go on with his demands without any confirmation, when he sees John nod, sharply, just once, eyes averted. “I think that’s probably a good idea.” John knows the drinking is a problem and is ready to give it up. Good.

“Second, you return to your job. Or, if you prefer, solve cases with me. I need you to contribute to the rent.” A lie, but John doesn't need to know that.

"Of course, I'm sorry, I didn't think." John clears his throat. “I don’t think Sarah will let me back.”

“You are a highly-qualified doctor. There are other posts. Or, again, you may work with me. I will admit, I have missed having my assistant.” Sherlock wants to smile at John, reassure him, but he also wants the upper-hand in this conversation. When John smiles a little, though, and ducks his head at the compliment, Sherlock can feel his own heart trying to beat out of his chest. He is overcome with fondness and love for this man, and he feels a reluctant smile turn the corner of his lips. He quickly tucks it away again.

“Third, you will let me tell you why I left, without interruption.” Sherlock knows this one is a risk, and that this has been a sore spot between them since the moment he returned. Forgiveness without understanding is what John had given him. But John has never really forgiven him, and Sherlock needs John to know and understand why he did what he did. He is not sorry for having saved John’s life, whatever is has cost him, and John needs to know. Sherlock  _needs_ John to know that.

“Fine,” John says, resigned, and Sherlock takes a moment to let himself wonder why John is so averse to hearing this. It is the first time he has thought about it in the year since he’s been back. Maybe it has less to do with Sherlock and more to do with John himself. He stores the thought.

“Finally,” and this is it, Sherlock thinks. Not really a condition, though in some ways it is. _His_ condition. The condition of his heart. He takes a deep breath, meets John’s gaze, then continues, though most of his bravado has left and he feels once again small in the face of his own feelings, “I am in love with you, John. If you stay here...I can’t-” he breaks off, swallows hard, looks away from John’s incredulous face for a moment in order to recover some strength. It feels like he has simultaneously submerged himself and come up for his first breath of air in ages.

“I can’t go through this again. I can’t stand by and watch you be happy with someone else, I can’t be your best man, I can’t do any of it. I have many regrets, John, about the way this turned out, but none so great as the words I never said. That night I came back, or in my hospital room, or on the tarmac. They have always been there, on the tip of my tongue and in everything I did. _I love you_. I am in love with you, and I have been since I left, and I’m sorry I never told you. But that does not make it any less true. And if you stay here, at Baker Street with me, I will expect nothing of you in return, I swear it. Except the decency to stop breaking my heart.”

John looks stunned. Could it really be that he had no idea how Sherlock felt?

“Sherlock, I...I didn’t, I can’t...” John can’t seem to complete a thought, again, and Sherlock fights down the feeling of helplessness, of disappointment, of despair, of wanting to comfort John instead of protect himself, to take it all back and take away that look from John’s face. That is what got him here, though, and he has vowed to choose himself this time. And he can’t protect himself by hiding. He will be clear, and John can take it (him) or leave it (he would fall to pieces).

“I understand, John. Now I need **you** to understand. Everything I have done, starting with that damned phone call from the roof, everything has been for you. I have tried in so many ways to make it up to you, to apologize for my behavior through my actions, and to ensure you had the kind of life you deserved.”

“The kind of life I deserved?” John laughs sarcastically. “I deserved this, did I? I chose her, did I? That’s what you told me, that night. Well, I didn’t! I didn’t, Sherlock! I chose you! Every time. Every bloody time! You were all I wanted, our life that we had together. All of it. Everything. And you chose to give that up. You made that choice, without me. So tell me; how is this what I deserve, hm? I deserved **that** life, Sherlock. And you took it from me. And gave me this one.”

Sherlock feels his throat closing, feels tears working their way to his eyes, and swallows it all back. He nods. This went about exactly as he had thought it would. He gestures to John’s bags, neatly waiting by the door.

“Then, by all means.” He sweeps his hand towards them, turning his face away and taking that moment to compose himself. He’s not sure he has the strength to watch John actually walk out of the flat.

But John doesn’t go for the bags. He walks around to face Sherlock, grabs him by the arms.

“You idiot. Have you heard what I said? This is the life I want, Sherlock. With you. **This** is what I deserve. Why do you think I came back here? How could I be anywhere but here, with you?”

“But you’ve been miserable here.”

“Yes, of course I have, I was grieving, Sherlock. Despite what she turned out to be, I did love her, God help me. She saved me. You understand that, don’t you?”

Of course he does.

John takes Sherlock’s hands in his. “But you saved me first. It’s like, I’ve been handed this second chance, yeah? I asked you not to be dead and you aren’t. And I haven’t handled it well, I know. I’m sorry. I never expected to get what I wished for, and I didn’t know what to do with it. I didn’t know how you felt, Sherlock, or I would never have asked those things of you.”

Sherlock nods. He believes this; John is rarely cruel on purpose.

“But you don’t love me, you ‘can’t do this with me anymore’, that’s what you said.” They are close, but Sherlock can still feel something in between them. Misunderstandings, maybe. He’s not sure they are on the same page, yet.

John laughs, lightly, like he is actually happy, and Sherlock is even more confused. Until John slowly and carefully, as if he’s a fragile, wounded thing, brings his hands up to Sherlock’s face. Traces his cheekbones with his thumb, looks him in the eyes, and whispers, “No, I can’t. I can’t be in love with you and live here with you while you clearly don’t return my feelings. I can't do that again. But neither can you, as I understand it. Now, can I try this again?”

Sherlock nods, feeling dumb. _So...John does…?_

This time, when their lips meet, Sherlock has to draw a deep breath through his nose in order to stay conscious. He feels like all his frayed ends are being pulled together again, into something tight and clear. Like all the chaos and noise inside his heart is finally tuned to the same frequency. He quickly wraps his arms around John and deepens the kiss, pushing his whole self into the smaller man. If he could fit inside him, that would be all he could hope for from his life.

John breaks the kiss, but stays close, resting his forehead on Sherlock’s. They are looking eye to eye. Sherlock notices that he is hunched, bent to meet John. Whether or not he wants to, he will always bend for John, he thinks. And it does not scare him nearly so much as it did hours ago.

“I want this,” John whispers. “I’ve been lost, and I’m sorry, but just like bloody always, you found me, even inside my own head. I’m here, now, and I want this, Sherlock. More than anything.”

 _Yes_ , Sherlock thinks, _I lost myself, but I found you. **Exactly**_.

_****  
_

 

 

 

 

********  
  


_****  
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_****  
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**Author's Note:**

> Listen along to: Mary Lambert, "Wounded Animal"
> 
> Thanks for reading! I've been working on this for a long time, and it just never really felt finished, but I don't know what there is to add, so I'm posting it. Comments are appreciated.
> 
> This fic was just translated into Chinese! My first fic translation! Here's the link: http://archiveofourown.org/works/4719137


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